


Bolton Slaughterhouse and Rendering Plant

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Forced Nudity, Isolation, Kidnapping, More tags will be added as I write more chapters, Rape, Slaughterhouse, Threats, Torture, Tying people up, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-21 11:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4827437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the small, bleak town of Winterfell, hundreds of miles from the major cities and interstates, lies a menacing factory called the Bolton Slaughterhouse and Rendering Plant.<br/>This is where the town's meat animals are slaughtered. But sometimes--when the Boltons acquire an enemy--their machines have other uses.<br/>One cold night, Ramsay's friends bring him a victim that he wasn't expecting...that not even his lord father knows of. With this freedom of undetection, and with that extra room in the depths of the basement that no one but Ramsay frequents....<br/>Ramsay will have plenty of opportunity to explore his darkest curiosities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nanjcsy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanjcsy/gifts).



Ramsay parked his beat-up car on the back parking lot of the building, safely hidden from any unlikely passerby who might travel the road at 2:30 a.m. He pulled his sweatshirt hood over face and quickly crossed the parking lot, ignoring the freezing night air. Plain, sharp metal letters that spelled “Bolton Rendering” arched above his head as he climbed the stairs and into the doorways of the slaughterhouse.

Bolton’s Rendering was the only factory that slaughtered and processed meat in the gloomy small town of Winterfell--and, to the woe of the people who lived nearby, was also its only rendering plant. Not only did the family company take care of supplying meat needs for the town, it also rendered the byproducts and wastes--breaking down bones into powders, fats into tallow, and the grade F slops of the worst meat into dog food not fit for human consumption. 

Bolton’s Rendering got a bad rep. In the past, when Roose’s father been the CEO, they used to fear the threats of the occasional pesky animal-rights reporter who would come sniffing around--but when Roose took over with his wayward bastard son, they found a “discreet” way to take care of the problem, to ensure that no one with ill intent towards the company would ever be able to leave...or, in fact, be discovered at all.

This was why Ramsay--who sighed and checked his clock for the third time--was here right now, at 2:33 in the morning, wondering whether it would be worth it to beat up Skinner for being late and wasting his time. You see, Ramsay typically worked in animal butchery, but every now and then the plant had a human problem to deal with. And those had to happen late at night, when no one was around, before Roose could get a chance to discover the unpleasant remains lodged in the machinery and lecture his son about the dangers of indiscretion. 

Loud heavy metal clanged from the parking lot, and seconds later, a rusty pickup spray-painted in graffiti swerved into the parking lot with a squeal of its wheels.

Car doors slammed, and Skinner bounded up the stairs, with more spring in his step than usual.

Ramsay frowned. “Cut the radio next time, you fucking moron. You want the cops sniffing around here?”

Skinner’s smirk didn’t leave his face. “No cops for miles of here. Listen man, guess who I got in the backseat.”

Ramsay glanced through the windows and saw the outline of a large, black body-bag that roughly resembled the shape of a human, lying in the backseat of Skinner’s truck.

He shrugged. “Dunno, but it better be the body I ordered.” Last week, Roose had made a subtle implication that one of the Frey swine had a plan to start a competing farm, and use video evidence of animal mistreatment to bring down the Boltons. Ramsay, of course, had made arrangements to stop this problem immediately. 

Skinner grinned. “Even better. Frey’s all squared away--we ran into him out in the woods shootin’ possums, and Damon put a bullet through his head. Then we got him all squared away with a good ole’ acid bath. That goo’s all mixed in with the river, now.”

Ramsay squinted, looking for any distinguishing clues in the truck. “Then who the hell’s this?”

Skinner opened the truck door, grabbed the black bag, and hauled it roughly to the ground. A weak moan and feeble movements came from inside the bag.

“Take a guess,” Skinner said.

Ramsay’s mind spun. This was the perfect opportunity: a delivery his father did not know about. Roose never went to the extra rendering room in the basement; Ramsay could keep this new toy down there for months, and his father would never know. 

Ramsay grabbed the rusty knife he kept in his pocket and began to rip the bag open. “Let’s find out.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I added YourWastedSpace as a co-author. She did most of this second chapter, actually all of it except a few small edits of mine. Next chapters we'll be working together from Theon's POV. -Ame

Ramsay hauled the bag into the steps of the factory. It was all dark inside, save for the bellowings of the animals slated for slaughter that morning. The stench of blood, shit and rot filled the air, but Ramsay had gotten used to it by now. The place was dark, but Ramsay was so used to it that by now he didn't need lights. 

He carried the bag down stairs, ignoring the muffled cries as his next bit of prey thunked along the steps. He reached the hall where the basement was, but instead of going toward the main basement that his father occasionally used, he took the other hallway and went to another door, so rusted that it almost couldn't open. 

It was Ramsay's secret that this extra "utility room" existed. Not even the inspectors knew. Roose's father, and then Roose himself, had always claimed that it had been caved in by rubble on the other side of the rusted door, that it no longer existed at all....but Ramsay, to no one else's knowledge, knew it existed. He'd since let in Skinner, Damon and a few others, but they knew their fate if they said a word. Death by live grinding.

The kid was thin, scrappy, and curled up like a flayed squirrel. He must have been – what – nineteen, twenty, maybe younger? Straggly blonde wisps peeped out through bruised, bleeding knuckles. His t-shirt and jeans looked old, torn, and he stank of neglect. Ramsay’s lips curled into a smile. Clearly a street rat – and one that wouldn’t be missed.

The boy was shuddering violently and whispering something under his breath. The curve of his spine - hell, the general caved-in demeanour – suggested a long-standing familiarity with beatings. Ramsay felt a tug of disappointment – this one probably won’t even fight. Still, this was better than nothing – and perhaps he could improvise.

Ramsay bent down to the shivering ball, and spoke in low, soothing tones. ‘In a moment, I am going to ask you to stand up, so that we can take a look at you. I know that you are scared out of your mind, and so I am going to give you a moment to calm down. But, when I ask you to do so, it is very important that you stand up. Do you understand?’

The kid’s bony shoulders jerked with every word as if struck, but the whispering stopped. Ramsay stood up again, and silently counted to ten.

‘Okay. It is time to stand up now, please’.

From under jutting-out elbows he heard a loud sob, but already the kid had started to unfurl. Now, on his hands and knees and with his chin pressed to his chest, it was clear that he was pretty as hell – far prettier than Ramsay had ever dared hope. Such a shame that this beautiful creature had already been part broken-in. Ramsay clenched his jaw.

The kid was still crouching on the ground, visibly willing himself to levitate upwards. He looked close to passing out, vomiting, or both. It would be a shame to break those skinny ribs just yet. Ramsay leaned down and spoke in the boy’s ear.

‘I’m assuming that I don’t need to ask again?’

The boy shook his head and forced himself up. Ramsay stood back and took it all in. He was tall – a bit taller than Ramsay – and exquisitely scraggy. His hair was dirty blonde, longish; his eyes were bruised black from lack of sleep. He had full, biteable lips and a smooth, freckled nose. He was a combination of teen idol and child-abuse poster. Ramsay’s cock throbbed. This one was fucking perfect.

Ramsay’s fingernails bit into his palm as he forced himself not to beat the boy into a bloody pulp there and then. The kid was murmuring again, some kind of lyrics or shit? Some kind of rhyme, in any case. He still had not opened his eyes once. Time to take a peak under those clothes.

‘Shirt off, please’.

The boy sobbed loudly again, but – fingers fumbling – lifted up his t-shirt and peeled it off. It stuck slightly to his skin. Ramsay circled and then stepped back. Great, deep gashes – from a whip, or a belt – all over the kid’s back and shoulders. Some of them were weeping, infected, and there were several thin scars as well. All of this must have been for payment – the kid didn’t seem the type to do it for kicks.

‘Well, well, well. Somebody’s been busy. Jeans, please’.

Weeping quietly now, the kid slipped off his jeans. A few more bruises, new and old, but otherwise he looked unscathed. Ramsay was dismayed to think of the state of the boy’s asshole – in ruins, no doubt. Still, that opened up other possibilities, so to speak.

Ramsay turned to Skinner, who had pulled out a table and was fixing straps to each corner.

‘I have to hand it to you, dude. He’s pretty incredible’.

Skinner grinned and shrugged – his preference was for cadavers. Ramsay, however, wanted this one alive for as long as possible. 

‘Right, then. Over the table, please’.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter from Theon's POV.

_I can’t._

_I can’t do it._

Terror pulsed through Theon's entire body with such intensity that he truly believed he might die from it then and there. For a moment, just a tiny one, he willed it to happen. Then he shook the thought from his mind – it was too dangerous.

_I can’t do it._

_I can’t._

He forced himself to glance up at the two men. One of them was spidery, thin, with pale, ghoulish eyes. The other was stocky, tawny, with long dark hair and thick, cruel lips. There was something familiar about him, but Theon could not work out what. Theon was afraid of them both, but the stocky one most of all. At least the spidery one wore his cruelty like clothing. The stocky one hid it. Theon knew from experience how that could play out.

_I need to run._

_I can’t do it._

Theon stared down at his fists - clenched tight from fear, not to fight – and then at his bare feet. Earlier, before this, he had been soaked through from the rain. He had taken his sneakers off to dry them – ‘That way my feet won’t rot’. Part of him wanted them to – if you don’t treat gangrene soon enough, then death surely follows. ‘But that just will not do,’ he had sung to himself. ‘Death isn’t for you’. He had felt so miserable, so hopeless, for he knew in his heart that things would only get worse. They only ever got worse. It was inevitable.

_If I don't try to run, he will punish me for it._

_I at least need to try._

But he was rooted to the spot. Theon's eyes bored into his feet, willing them to move. They just wouldn’t – he just couldn’t. He had never been able to run, or to fight; he didn’t have the courage, the strength. He lay passively in the jaws of the beast while it carefully chewed him. This is what hell must be like, he thought, and I am already in it. I have always been in it, and I always will be.

_You at least need to try._

_It will be worse if you lie._

_I can’t do it._

He felt himself jolt as a firm hand gripped his arm. It was already too late – he had failed before it had even begun. He would just have to give in – it was the only thing he was good at. He would pay for it later, though, if they let him go. Sobs ripped through his chest as he allowed himself to be guided to the table. Then, a gentle pat on his back, and he bent over it.

‘Such impeccable behavior! Should we reward him for that?’

‘Sure’.

‘Spread your arms out, buddy. You really are doing great’.

Theon did as he was told. He always did.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YWS surprised me with this chapter. I woke up and was like "Wow, new chapter" and then was like "HOLY FUCK POOR THEON." So if it shocks even me, then yeah, that's the warning.  
> Theon's humiliation has reached a new low. Yeah.  
> Also I think there might be some electrocution in the next chapter.  
> -Amethyst

'Can you open your legs for me, pal?'

The stocky one spoke so kindly that Theon almost felt safe. He forced himself to focus on doing everything correctly. If he obeyed every word - if he was good, a good boy - then they might go easy. It was how these things worked. Theon shifted position so that his ankles could be bound to the table legs. He heard the skinny one snort with disgust.

'Jesus. He fucking reeks. Can we hose him down or something?'

The stocky one laughed: 'I was thinking the same thing'.

Theon ached with shame, because he did - he did stink. It was fucking disgusting - all this dirt, all this shit. He was fucking disgusting, just filth.

The cold blast was so powerful that Theon believed it might rip him apart. He shrieked as it tore into every part of him. Suddenly, it stopped, and he bit back the impulse to beg. He knew more was coming. Rough hands gripped his asscheeks and forced them apart. He sobbed with such shame that he wished again to die. This time he did not fight that thought.  _Just kill me. Just do it._

'Actually, don't, dude. I think that could kill him'.

'I don't want to fuck  _that_. Have you seen the state of his asshole?'

'Just wipe it, then'.

'I'm not wiping his  _ass!'_

Theon shrieked in shame now, struggling against the straps. _Out out out I need to get ..._ Already, he was breaking. He felt his hair twisted, and his face wrenched upwards. It was the stocky one. Theon fell silent in an instant. Cool breath brushed his cheek.

'You are covered in dried shit, you filthy bitch. You are fucking repulsive, and we are trying to clean you up. But you scream and try to struggle? You ungrateful little cunt'.

Theon choked as his neck was pulled back further -  _he is going to break it_ \- and then, suddenly released, he gasped a great lungful of air. He shivered now with sheer cold, and with the realisation that he was pissing himself.  _Maybe they won't see ... with all of that water ..._ As the cold blast hit his cock and balls, the agony was so great he could not even scream.

'Enough'.

Teeth knocking together, Theon let himself beg now. ' _Please ... I'll be good ... Please ... I'll be good ...'_

He heard the stocky one chuckle. 'Don't stress it, buddy. Mind if we loosen you up a little?'


End file.
